


foursome

by romanticalgirl



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted 7-20-08</p>
    </blockquote>





	foursome

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 7-20-08

He follows Lancelot because he has no choice. He has given himself to his men for one night, following an ill-advised, drunken pact that, should they go to the church with him and listen to the word of God, he would go with them wherever they wished and hear them speak of their Gods. It is the way of the missionary, he knows, to hear the word of heathens before spreading that of God, to see their delusion before drowning it in the light.

He can hear the laughter before they reach the clearing and recognizes the voices of Gawain and Galahad. Galahad is the youngest and rashest of his men, and Arthur thinks perhaps he is the most likely to accept the word of God, or would be were it not for the steadying influence of Gawain. To have Galahad follow, Gawain must lead, and Arthur has not yet figured the way to guide them both. Lancelot, his current guide, would be a lost cause, if Arthur believed in such things, but he cannot allow himself the luxury of it. To say Lancelot is irredeemable is to say that Arthur has not tried hard enough to redeem him. 

There is thick, grey smoke rising from the large fire and the cold night air seems held at bay by the leaping flames. Trees mar his vision so he cannot seem more than the top of the blaze, but he can feel the warmth of it spreading like a blanket through the forest. He would question their safety here, but there is something magical about tonight, something that makes the rest of the world feel distant and ancient, as though there is something magical about this place, something sacred.

Lancelot stops outside the clearing and Arthur can see over his shoulder to the deep dug trench that houses the fire, the stack of logs that lies a short distance from it to keep its hungry maw fed. He cannot see Gawain or Galahad, though their voices still carry on the crisp air. Their tone is different now, softer though still tinged with laughter. Arthur opens his mouth to ask Lancelot a question, but is silenced by the soft touch of Lancelot’s calloused finger against his lips. 

He is smiling, a sight that inspires a myriad of emotions in Arthur, not the least of which are anticipation and fear. He shakes his head, keeping Arthur silent, and walks backwards toward the fire, his whole being wreathed in shadows, his face a compelling combination of angel and demon. He reaches the edge of the fire and takes Arthur’s hand, grasping him tightly around the wrist for the endless moment before he vanishes in the flames.

Panic overwhelms Arthur until the roar and crackle are replaced with laughter and he looks around to find himself on the other side of the fire, the ground littered with pelts and blankets, emptied pitches and flagons of wine like wounded soldiers tipped drunkenly on their sides. He wants to say something but is stopped short once more, this time by the sight of Gawain, naked and stretched out on the largest of the blankets, his body covered with scars and bruises. He is like a sacrifice and Arthur loses his words again, watching as Galahad straddles Gawain and sinks down, taking him deep inside himself. 

“This…” He begins, cut short by Lancelot’s hand clamped over his mouth. He shakes his head in protest, but it does nothing to remove the hard grip. Gawain and Galahad’s breathing is rough and loud and far too near for Arthur’s comfort, but he cannot help but cast his eyes toward them, cannot look away from the sight of their bodies moving together. 

“This is worship, Arthur.” Lancelot whispers to him, removing his hand slowly. He steps back to the pile of blankets and begins to disrobe, stripping away all the trappings of Roman society, of his low station. Arthur has tried before to keep his gaze averted from Lancelot, and failed time and again, so he does not bother now, simply watches as he disrobes and moves over to Gawain and Galahad, stroking his fingers through the mass of Galahad’s curls to pull his head back, to kiss the parted and upturned lips. Lancelot lowers himself to his knees beside them and Gawain reaches to touch his skin, and Arthur catches his breath, too familiar with the hard muscles under Lancelot’s flesh to not feel a flare of jealousy at the sight.

“Come and join us, Arthur.” Gawain’s voice holds the thick slur of desire and mead, the heavy hint of laughter. “We promise not to hurt you.”

“Silence, Gawain,” Lancelot reprimands him softly. “He does not ask us to pray, only to listen.” 

Arthur starts to protest, especially as Gawain’s hand slides from Lancelot’s hip to his buttocks, and the thought of what this is, what is before him sinks in. He needs to return to the fort and pray, ask God for forgiveness for them all. Instead, he finds himself with shaking hands, disrobing in the firelight and moving to the blankets. He sinks down behind Lancelot, Gawain’s hand between them, and rests his hand on the back of Galahad’s neck.


End file.
